


He's Freaky Friday and What About You?

by framedhim



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:26:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framedhim/pseuds/framedhim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TITLE: He's Freaky Friday and What About You?<br/>AUTHOR:  framedhim<br/>RATING: R<br/>WARNING: foul language, very brief contemplation of pregnancy termination, f/f  not graphic in the least<br/>SUMMARY: It's a date, a choice, a wing and a hope.</p>
<p>NOTE:  This is an Original Work, meaning I own.  :)    It was based on an art prompt for a small writing community meant to help us improve and develop a folder of original works.  This story is designed to be a snippet of a larger work and essentially throws the reader into a scene between two characters.  </p>
<p><b>PROMPTS:</b><br/>                                  <a href="http://pics.livejournal.com/framedhim/pic/0001rxww/"></a><img/><br/>                                familiarity, pinch</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's Freaky Friday and What About You?

+

“He’s despised with the burning of a thousand suns.”

An admonishment, “Oh please, don’t hold back on my account.”

It’s a wash - the evening a total disaster.  The women in their immediate vicinity, bejeweled accessories to the private club’s foyer, are giving them incredulous side glances; sipping martinis as to barely conceal their slight disapprovals towards the drama.

She has one foot out the door, the base of her high-heel spearing a piece of Styrofoam that she awkwardly bends to remove as she fusses, “Oh, trust.  The moment we’re out the door, you’re getting an earful.”

Lynn pats her friend’s arm, the peacoat’s light fabric soft under her touch.  They step out - out of sight, out of lip service range of overly eager gossiping bittys.   Granted, those same bittys are the city’s powerhouse femme fatales no less, but that’s neither here nor there.

They’re five steps down the sidewalk, avoiding puddles of muddy slush, and Lynn wonders if they’re ever going to see this out in the open; this giant elephant of a non-secret lagging behind them in every aspect of their lives.

Leta stops, spins on a dime with her hands in her pockets, and stares into a storefront window, zeroing in on the frosted treats displayed.  Lynn watches her, restrains her own hand from tucking the flyaways behind Leta’s ears; she watches in the window the reflected tendrils skim past her face, sees herself shiver as she’s tickled by the strands.

“He juggled.”

Lynn’s snapped out of her moment, cuts her eyes away from their reflections, stares and waits for the explanation of _that_ detail.

Only, nothing follows and Lynn assumes she’s been given an opening to respond, “wha...”

“Just, wait, first there’s…the French macaroons, see those?  Raspberry and they have your favorite over,” Leta’s searching, the flavor of cookie spotted before Lynn has a chance to even think, “…there; I see the chocolate ones in the main case.  C’mon gorgeous.”

It’s chocolate meringue.  The filling is chocolate meringue, and it’s airy, not too sweet, and for the first time in months, Lynn isn’t regretting a dietary deviation.  It’s halfway through a lick of fluff from her lips, cherry gloss blending with the chocolate flavor of the meringue distracting her enjoyment, when Leta speaks again. 

“He juggled.”   They’re seated on the confectioner store’s patio, chilled and satisfied.  Leta's not looking up nor is she fidgeting.  She simply sits across from Lynn, hands daintily toying with her macaroon treat. 

“So you’ve stated.”  Lynn wants to grab her best friend’s chin, lightly pinch Leta’s jaw to make her pay attention, tilt her head up.  Have her understand that this drama won’t ruin her, not if Lynn has one iota of a say-so.  “He’s a…bastard?” 

It’s a question or a statement, whatever Leta needs it to be. “But we all multi-task, Leta.” 

As soon as she says it, there’s a burst of _pfft_.  Leta’s withholding the stream of curses her best friend can see her wanting to let loose.  Leta won't, of course, as she’s in public and really - there are demeanors they force themselves to maintain. Façades they both carry percariously; false fronts to wear and crafted as once little girls practicing to a tee in one another's bathrooms after school.  They were so naive, idolizing the fabulous jet-setting women their own mother’s ran in circles with - power players, doctors, lawyers.  It's sheer professionalism seated across the table from her even as Leta's boot tip nudges her own.

_It’s still me._

Lynn spots the frustration in hazel brown eyes darting up to meet hers, eyelids narrowed.  “No, you don’t get - Lynn," Leta stops and starts, irritated.  She uses Lynn's name in a buzzing whine, and it strikes a nerve.  “He actually juggled.  As in, we managed to get into _Laissez-Faire_ during brunch and he,” she stumbles over the words, eyes widening, “he picked up the salt and pepper mills and his salad fork and juggled them.”

Choking on a cookie crumb stops the bark of laughter threatening to break free, Lynn instantly turning her head to face the side to hide her amusement.  A napkin is thrust her way, iron patio chair scraping the concrete as Leta stands without saying a word.  She doesn't look back, simply opens the tiny latch on the patio's iron fence and waits, her back still turned. Lynn stands, brushes the crumbs from her hands (tiny birds peeping and hopping about going wild) and comes to stand behind Leta.  She's still amused when she says, “And thusly, you brought him home…to bed.  Makes sense.”

It’s quiet. 

They’re five minutes from the townhome, passing an apartment parking garage when Lynn’s need to giggle evaporates, when Leta’s gloved fingers twist and fidget together as she sighs.  “More about it, okay?  Inside though.”

Lynn is unlocking their front door, delicately scrolled handle first and then the deadbolt, swinging the door wide, saying, “All right.  Showers, then we’ll discuss?  Need to get the wine and sweets edge out of my system.”  She nods to Leta’s nod, locking the front door then heading to the kitchen to start the single-serve for their nightly hot tea.  She taps the granite counter, _click click click_ , and heads to her roommate’s bedroom.

Ten minutes and humming, sitting by the headboard while running her fingers down freshly waxed legs until the voice from the shower starts.  “Should I put an ad in the paper?  You know ‘em, right? The Seeking So-and-So - in case I go ahead with this?”  The shower’s stopped, apple scented steam billowing out from under the bathroom door.

“You’re doing this then?  And, I don’t think it’s required, legally, I suppose.  We’ll ask Deidre tomorrow on that to figure out his rights - just in case.”  It’s called out, like the steam in there stops Leta from hearing her.

Lynn’s known Leta for what seems her entire life.  Familiarity with the human puzzle that is her best friend - the good, the bad, and the ugly.  That Leta knows hers as well makes this okay.

“Maybe, _shitfuckshit_ ,” Leta’s on the bed, dried and swamped in a soft, cushy robe that warms Lynn’s thigh where they're pressing together lightly.  “Sorry, but, okay - do _you_ think you want, or, should I just put a stop to this."  Her hands flap around silly-like, waving in front of her.  "He doesn’t matter.  It was a last ditch thing, Lynn, and this was not in the fucking cards.”

That annoying whine buzzes around Lynn's head and she responds quickly, “Your body, your choice” and shes touching Leta’s cheek now, hopes she’s right about this. “Support, present.  Together, yeah?” 

Leta’s latte complexion doesn’t flush as darkly as Lynn’s own porcelain does and she sees more skin as Leta guides Lynn's hand to a small expanse of now exposed belly.  The slight curvature could stay or go, Leta’s choice, and Lynn wants. 

Wants.  

Lynn throws her head back and laughs, tears running smartly, then whispers in agreement of disdain against a new terrain of pouty lips, a new discovery to an old familiarity, “He juggled.”

**Author's Note:**

> Concrit of the non-brutal variety would be lovely. Regardless, thank you for taking the time to read.
> 
> Peace,  
> framed


End file.
